of lace at her throat. Tugging it free, revealing the smooth slope of her neck. Lips to throat, tasting the salt of her skin. His cock surged at the thought.
Of course, she was just as likely to conk him with the satchel in her hand if he tried.
“’Ere. Let me take that,” he murmured. His fingers brushed hers as he took it. His imagination felt that touch in other, darker places, but Honoria looked far less affected.
“You’re being entirely too charming,” she said, turning on him with guarded eyes. “What are you up to?”
“Per’aps it’s merely me nature to be charmin’.”
“Unlikely.” She gave him a reserved look as she seated herself. “You want something from me.”
“A gentleman never professes ’is desires to a lady,” he admitted. “It ain’t polite.”
A healthy flush of color touched her cheeks. “You’re quite right, of course. But a gentleman should never admit to having such desires in the first instance.”
Blade sank into the opposing armchair and hooked his ankle up on his other knee. He laced his fingers together across his middle, eyeing her with a slight smile. “Your notions are practic’ly middle class, luv.” The Echelon was all about the pursuit of pleasure. As if in defiance, the middle and working classes had become somewhat conservative. They dressed in solid, work-a-day colors and sturdy fabrics and kept well-mannered households.
“I am middle class,” she retorted.
“And I’m of the gutters.”
“Your manners perhaps.” She ran an appraising eye over him. “You have the gaudy instincts of the Echelon and a theoretical notion of etiquette, so it seems. When it suits you. I shall have my work cut out for me.”
Dragging the satchel into her lap, she opened it and started assembling an array of papers and notes on the small table beside her. “I thought perhaps we should start with an overview of what is needed. I have none of the equipment I use at Macy’s, but I’m certain we can make do. Your speech shall be the most difficult task. There are some books here that I borrowed from my brother…” She dug them out, relegating him to merely another student. He would just see about that. She looked up beneath thick, dark lashes. “Can you read at all?”
“Some,” he admitted. It weren’t the sort of thing he’d had much time for, between his early life on the streets and his later life in the rookery. “Me name. Dates. Numbers. I’m good with numbers.”
Honoria uncapped a pen and made a brief notation. A knock sounded on the door and she looked up.
“Come in,” he called.
Lark shoved the door open, giving an old automated drone a shove. The drone rumbled forward with a teakettle whistle of steam escaping from its vents. A gleaming silver tureen held Honoria’s meal, with steam vents keeping it warm within, and the teapot jostled on the tray as the drone jerked toward them.
“Bloody ’ell,” Blade said. “You’ve resurrected old Bertie.”
They didn’t bother to sit on formality at the warren. The drone had been fenced years ago, and with its faulty wiring it had never been sold on. Esme or Lark must have hauled it out of storage, though for what purpose he wasn’t certain.
Lark hauled the drone up short just as it prepared to plow through Honoria’s chair. “Bloody scrap o’ tin.”
Honoria stared in astonishment. “What is this?”
“An eighteen fifty-eight service drone,” he admitted. “Either that or a rusted bucket of bolts with the steering capacity of an ’erd of stampedin’ bulls.”
“Yes, but…” Honoria gave the pot of tea a swift glance, then eyed the silver tureen with far more interest. “It’s well after supper and you don’t eat.”
Blade lifted the lid. A steaming waft of kidney pie filled the air. He deliberately fanned it her way with the lid. To the side sat a small plate of biscuits and ginger cake. “I thought per’aps you might be ’ungry. Me ’ousekeeper’s grub is delicious,
Of course, she was just as likely to conk him with the satchel in her hand if he tried.
“’Ere. Let me take that,” he murmured. His fingers brushed hers as he took it. His imagination felt that touch in other, darker places, but Honoria looked far less affected.
“You’re being entirely too charming,” she said, turning on him with guarded eyes. “What are you up to?”
“Per’aps it’s merely me nature to be charmin’.”
“Unlikely.” She gave him a reserved look as she seated herself. “You want something from me.”
“A gentleman never professes ’is desires to a lady,” he admitted. “It ain’t polite.”
A healthy flush of color touched her cheeks. “You’re quite right, of course. But a gentleman should never admit to having such desires in the first instance.”
Blade sank into the opposing armchair and hooked his ankle up on his other knee. He laced his fingers together across his middle, eyeing her with a slight smile. “Your notions are practic’ly middle class, luv.” The Echelon was all about the pursuit of pleasure. As if in defiance, the middle and working classes had become somewhat conservative. They dressed in solid, work-a-day colors and sturdy fabrics and kept well-mannered households.
“I am middle class,” she retorted.
“And I’m of the gutters.”
“Your manners perhaps.” She ran an appraising eye over him. “You have the gaudy instincts of the Echelon and a theoretical notion of etiquette, so it seems. When it suits you. I shall have my work cut out for me.”
Dragging the satchel into her lap, she opened it and started assembling an array of papers and notes on the small table beside her. “I thought perhaps we should start with an overview of what is needed. I have none of the equipment I use at Macy’s, but I’m certain we can make do. Your speech shall be the most difficult task. There are some books here that I borrowed from my brother…” She dug them out, relegating him to merely another student. He would just see about that. She looked up beneath thick, dark lashes. “Can you read at all?”
“Some,” he admitted. It weren’t the sort of thing he’d had much time for, between his early life on the streets and his later life in the rookery. “Me name. Dates. Numbers. I’m good with numbers.”
Honoria uncapped a pen and made a brief notation. A knock sounded on the door and she looked up.
“Come in,” he called.
Lark shoved the door open, giving an old automated drone a shove. The drone rumbled forward with a teakettle whistle of steam escaping from its vents. A gleaming silver tureen held Honoria’s meal, with steam vents keeping it warm within, and the teapot jostled on the tray as the drone jerked toward them.
“Bloody ’ell,” Blade said. “You’ve resurrected old Bertie.”
They didn’t bother to sit on formality at the warren. The drone had been fenced years ago, and with its faulty wiring it had never been sold on. Esme or Lark must have hauled it out of storage, though for what purpose he wasn’t certain.
Lark hauled the drone up short just as it prepared to plow through Honoria’s chair. “Bloody scrap o’ tin.”
Honoria stared in astonishment. “What is this?”
“An eighteen fifty-eight service drone,” he admitted. “Either that or a rusted bucket of bolts with the steering capacity of an ’erd of stampedin’ bulls.”
“Yes, but…” Honoria gave the pot of tea a swift glance, then eyed the silver tureen with far more interest. “It’s well after supper and you don’t eat.”
Blade lifted the lid. A steaming waft of kidney pie filled the air. He deliberately fanned it her way with the lid. To the side sat a small plate of biscuits and ginger cake. “I thought per’aps you might be ’ungry. Me ’ousekeeper’s grub is delicious,
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